


Return to Sender

by epkitty



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Kiss, Love Letters, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-03
Updated: 2011-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:51:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/167141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a mystery!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which the Parchment is Found

The Hall of Fire was Lindir’s domain. He ruled over this one room in the same manner King Thranduil governed his kingdom. Everyone bowed down to the master minstrel in this one place, in the magical hall where herb-flung fires seduced the senses into shared memories and fantastical stories.

And, as any purveyor of music and revelry, Lindir looked after the place the way a parent would a child’s bedroom at the end of the night. Just as a loving mother puts away toys and trinkets, Lindir would be the last to stay, to right felled stools and collect lone mugs onto a tray for the kitchens. He would douse each candle and the last thing this beloved master minstrel would do, would be to walk the length of the place from fire to fire, sure to check that each was properly banked or put out, to secure the safety of their beloved Hall.

On one such night, no different from all the rest, the chairs had been straightened, the glasses collected, the candles extinguished, and all that remained was the final walk.

Lindir smiled. A minstrel’s life was easy, and he relished it. It was only hours till dawn. Many Elves would already be waking, to begin their morning ablutions and duties. But those like Lindir were only just heading for bed after another night of tale-telling and song-singing. He would sleep through the sunrise, and through the morning meal, and his own breakfast would not come till near noon.

He walked, step by step, across the stone floor of the hall, picking up a sheet of music, a spare glove, a forgotten pouch, nearly empty. As he was coming to the last fire at the very end of the hall, he saw another sheet of paper, a fine but heavy parchment all covered in neat and delicate handwriting like a scribe’s. Not until he stooped and picked it up from the edge of the grate, glancing, did he recognize it for what it was: a love poem.

It never occurred to Lindir why something so precious should be so easily misplaced, nor that perhaps it had been meant for the fire.

Instead, he set down the pile of misplaced belongings in the basket near the way out, keeping the parchment in hand as he closed the doors of the Hall behind him.


	2. Getting Backup

“Saelbeth!”

Saelbeth groaned at the sharp knocks upon his door. “Lindir,” he moaned, rolling over to crack open an eye and peer at the door. “Come in…”

Lindir shoved the door open and let it bang closed behind him. “Saelbeth!” he eagerly cried out. “Good morning!”

“Morning?” Saelbeth complained. “You woke me up and it’s not even noon yet!?”

“Read this!” Lindir demanded, shoving a parchment in his second’s face.

“Can I get dressed first?”

“No!”

Sitting up, his straw-like hair a matted rat’s nest, Saelbeth rubbed his strange amber eyes wearily and took the paper in his minstrel-callused hand. Not exactly observant at the best of times, he did not notice the way Lindir’s eyes closely traveled the expanse of his bare chest, wide and oddly muscled for a bard.

As he read, Saelbeth’s eyebrows rose and he made strange faces to indicate his interest. When he finished, he looked curiously at Lindir. “Why are you showing me this?”

“I found it!” Lindir said, green eyes alight with a dangerous twinkle. “In the Hall of Fire.”

“You mean someone LOST this?”

Lindir smiled and nodded. “I couldn’t believe it either! So, of course, I thought it best to show it to you. Between the two of us, I’m sure we can figure out who it’s intended for, and give it back to them.”

“Hmm,” Saelbeth wondered, turning again to the parchment. “Well, if I had to outright guess, I’d say Glorfindel.”

“Glorfindel, yes; that’s just what I thought!” Lindir agreed. “Of course, we can’t be sure… but the reference to hair like sunlight, and what with it being a secret love: of course Glorfindel has no attachments; at least, he pretends not to. But damn! He’s clever enough to hide something like this, even so highly situated as he is!”

“Hm.” Saelbeth’s wide mouth curved up into a catlike smile. “Who do you think wrote it?”


	3. Depending on the Kindness of Friends

Lindir and Saelbeth, in their tight leggings and long-skirted tunics, were running amongst the high rafters of the main stable, which was impossibly huge, with two aisles and four stalls across, running for forty-two stalls. The horses below were unperturbed by and probably ignorant of the two Elves above them, giggling and boyish though they were acting.

“There he is!” Lindir hissed, and they tiptoed their way out across a beam that stretched over one of the aisles, where beneath them a brown-haired Elf was in the process of mucking.

“Dinendal!” More giggling.

Dinendal looked up from his work, to either side, but there were no other Elves in the huge stable. He looked across the two stalls to the other aisle, but he couldn’t see anyone.

Deciding that he was hearing things, he went back to his work.

 _snort_ “Dinendal!”

He whipped his head up, looking to the left. To the right. Still, there was no one there, but he was certain, now, that he’d heard someone say his name. “Who’s there?” he asked in a deep and penetrating voice.

Being far younger and of much lower station than themselves, Lindir and Saelbeth had few scruples about making Dinendal the butt of their many jokes.

“Hullo? I heard you call me!”

Finally, their laughter gave them away, and Dinendal looked straight up. He smirked and narrowed his dark eyes. “Great,” he muttered. “What are you two doing here?”

Lindir waved the parchment in the air. Saelbeth swung himself round on the beam and dropped to a crouch in the fresh hay. “It’s a mystery!” he proclaimed.

Without any fancy acrobatics, Lindir jumped down too, momentarily frightening the nearest horse, which bumped its stall wall. Lindir ignored the horse and met Dinendal’s suspicious gaze. “We couldn’t leave such a good friend as you out of the loop.” He smiled. They had befriended Dinendal as a boy. He’d had the most beautiful singing voice, and as he grew up, Saelbeth and Lindir had taken turns trying to convince him to take an apprenticeship with one of them. But as much as Dinendal loved music, he felt that his duty to Imladris was even greater, and had joined the guard. Lindir and Saelbeth had gotten over their disappointment, and often visited him to distract him from his duties as a young guardsman.

Dinendal frowned at them. “Isn’t it a bit early for you two to be up and about?”

They chuckled and agreed. “But you have to take a look at this,” Lindir pressed, handing over the parchment.

“What is it?” Dinendal asked as he began to read. “A love letter?” he wondered, scanning all four verses. “It’s quite good,” he observed. When he finished, he looked back up into Lindir’s clear, green eyes. “What’s the mystery?”

“Who wrote it?”

“Who’d they write it to?”

“Why’d they lose it?”

“Or leave it behind?”

“Hm,” Dinendal said. “I see.” He smiled at them. “It is intriguing,” he wondered, looking back to the parchment. “It’s obvious they love each other very much, and I think have hid their relationship for a long time…”

“We think it’s for Glorfindel,” Saelbeth threw out.

“Oh? Could be. Could be a secret VERY well kept. So, what’s your plan?”

They exchanged glances.

“You’re going to tell Silinde, aren’t you?”


	4. Work the Grapevine

Silinde was one of the bakers in the House’s main kitchen. He was famed for his waybread, which was almost as good and sustaining as the secret lembas of Lorien. He also had a fair hand at pastries and cookies of all sorts, but he was more famous for his unofficial title as The Gossip of Imladris.

He could, during the day, always be found amongst the ovens in the kitchen, white up to his elbows with flour, his odd auburn hair tied back in a long braid.

Sure enough, Silinde was stationed at a tall table between the ovens, kneading a piece of dough and singing quietly to himself as others in the kitchen were busy here and there at their own duties.

Lindir, Saelbeth, and Dinendal formed a semi-circle across the counter from Silinde, rolling up their sleeves because of the heat.

Sensing their presence, Silinde slowly looked up, blue-green eyes twinkling at the sight of his three friends. “Just a minute,” he said, placing the dough to one side and covering it with a gauzy cloth, like several others laying out. “Taking a break!” he called out to his supervisor, who waved him off.

The four Elves departed out through a back stair that led up to a main path, which they followed to one of the lesser-used bridges, where all four dangled their legs over one side. Dinendal took out his pipe while Lindir and Saelbeth each sat to one side of the gossip. “Here Silinde,” Lindir said, giving him the parchment. “Don’t get flour all over it!”

“But we want to know what you think,” Saelbeth said.

The baker ran a distracted hand over his hair, making a line of gray smeared into the reddish blonde. He read the letter closely and with scholarly determination, saying nothing for many minutes.

“Well?” Dinendal wanted to know, blowing sweetly scented smoke to the wind that always carried with the river.

“Where did this come from? Who wrote it?”

The others smiled. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Saelbeth told him. “Lindir found it in the Hall of Fire. That’s all we know.”

Silinde slowly smiled. “Sounds like it’s to Glorfindel, doesn’t it? I don’t know why, but…”

“That’s what we figured, what with the hair color referenced, the allusions to gold.”

“But this is intriguing!” Silinde said, sitting up straight and smiling widely. “What a thing! What a mystery!”

“Do you have any theories?” Dinendal asked.

“Plenty,” Silinde acceded. “I believe it IS Glorfindel; it makes so much sense. But who could have written it! So romantic! So erotic! I just don’t know, but I know someone who might.”


	5. When in Doubt, Find A Scribe

“Good day, Chief Counselor!” Lindir greeted Erestor as the Elf emerged from the library. “Can you tell us if Melpomaen is in?”

“Yes, of course,” Erestor replied, regarding the foursome with an appraising air. “Don’t bother him too much; he’s working.”

“Of course!”

“Of course not!”

“Not a problem--”

“--Just need a moment of his time.”

They watched Erestor and his black shadow retreat down the sunlit hall.

“Thank goodness he’s gone,” Silinde muttered. “He never lets anyone put a toe out of line.”

“I’m sure your dislike of him has nothing to do with the fact that his moral compass points in an opposite direction from your own.”

Silinde grinned. “Well, I’ve never heard him gossip. Remember, Melpomaen’s nearly as uptight as his master, but always caves under pressure. Ready? Let’s go.”

They slipped quietly into the library, not desiring to draw any attention despite the bright colors the minstrels always wore, and Silinde’s white uniform. “Over there.”

“Good thing there’s hardly anyone here.”

They descended the steps from which they could see the entirety of the place and then meandered their way down the main aisle. They veered off into the many lines of shelves and then quietly surrounded Melpomaen’s desk, in the little nook where he was situated.

The scribe looked up. “Good day,” he said, somewhat nervous. Only Dinendal was near his own age and station, and he’d only ever had trouble from Silinde and the minstrels. “What might I do for you gentlemen?”

“Melpomaen! Good day!” Lindir greeted, finding a clean corner of the desk upon which to sit. “You’re so quiet and recalcitrant, my friend, that I wonder if you get your dues. Such a fine hand you have!” he complimented, picking up something that Melpomaen had been working on, careful not to smear the ink.

“Don’t smear the ink!” Melpomaen begged.

Lindir waved him off. “Of course not, little scribe. But we were wondering: you do so much work, surely you handle many papers in the course of a day.”

“Yes,” he agreed with some hesitation.

“Then,” Saelbeth broke in, “you would be familiar with the handwriting of many.”

“I have to be,” Melpomaen said with a sigh. “Do you know how many people fail to sign their own reports?”

“Ah! That’s good,” Saelbeth continued. “Then you’d recognize a hand you’d seen before.”

“Aye, of course.”

Silinde withdrew the parchment from the fold of his white uniform. “Then perhaps you can tell us who the author of this letter is.”

Melpomaen’s dark brows climbed his forehead as he took the parchment. He glared at them all for a moment and then turned his eyes to the paper. His expression did not betray any recognition, although he obviously found the subject intriguing. He read the whole letter, a faint flush to his face afterwards. “Uh, I’m sorry,” he told them, setting the paper atop his work, and looking up to Silinde’s eyes. “I don’t recognize the workmanship. I can only conclude that either someone’s taken the care of hiding their handwriting, or that I’ve never encountered it before. Again, I am sorry.”

Disappointment showed on the faces of his four visitors. “That’s too bad,” Silinde regretted. “Though we thank you for your help. You see, we wanted to return it to the author, but it looks as though we’ll have to pass it on to Glorfindel instead.”

“Glorfindel?” Melpomaen wondered. “Why?”

“Well, that’s who it’s intended for, isn’t it?”

Melpomaen looked down at the letter. “I don’t see why you should think so. This could have been written to a hundred Elves I know of.”   
“Hm,” Lindir harrumphed. “How many Elves in Imladris are described as having golden hair?”

“Just the one,” Saelbeth said. “Oh well, we’ll just take it to him, then.”

And he snatched for the parchment, which Melpomaen withheld. “Oh please, let me,” the scribe said. “You’d just torture him; this is obviously supposed to be a secret.”

Silinde had come up to one side of Melpomaen, and he deftly plucked the parchment away from him. “Not anymore,” he said, grinning. “Besides, what reason has he for such secrets?”


	6. Rightful Property

And although Melpomaen could not persuade the foursome, neither would he let them go alone. He insisted upon accompanying them, to their vast amusement.

It was nearly lunchtime, so they made their way to Glorfindel’s room, where it was expected that he would be changing out of his work clothes for the day. Indeed, it was just as they were approaching that his door opened and out Glorfindel stepped. “Whoa! Hello!” The golden Captain looked at them in shock for a moment. Lindir and Saelbeth often kept company together, but Dinendal was supposed to be in the stables, and as much trouble as Silinde got in by wagging his tongue he rarely left the kitchens to do it. And Melpomaen, Melpomaen was never seen out of the library if he could help it. To have all five of them at his door was a surreal experience. “What can I do for you— five?”

“It’s something we wanted to return to you,” Lindir said, betraying nothing. “I found it, and thought you wouldn’t want to lose it.” He handed the parchment over.

Glorfindel took it and curiously read.

‘As though a dream, I remember thy gilded tresses all entwined  
Among and betwixt the dark twisting ivy and grape.  
Upon thy golden flesh I’ve ardently dined,  
Worshipped all of thee: hand, foot, belly, nape,  
Wrapped myself in thy hair as in a sunlit cape.  
Such sweet embraces do I hourly recall  
So deeply am I in love with thee and in thy thrall.

It seems the passing time would dull the impact  
But over our years, the opposite has proven true:  
The night we swore our secret lovers’ pact  
Was but the moment from which all others grew  
And though the days dragged – at night, we flew!  
Loving and making love and falling in love again  
But only with the nights, the whispers, and this ready pen.

And such writings, such whispers, and such nights!  
Ah love, each time you bowed to my wished rule  
And fell willingly to restrained, rope-entangled plights  
I would fall upon you and make of our difference, a duel:  
Pull free the bonds; writhe, push, scream, mewl  
Til thy natural fire o’ertook my will  
And you pushed me down and had thy fill.

Ai beloved! What better way to love  
Than to everyday live something new,  
Acting the parts of swift eagle, pretty dove  
For flight is such an easy thing when love is true.  
So in our nest I rest and wait for you.  
Wrap your wings about me, beloved! and let us sleep  
And near the heart, let us these dreams so closely keep.’

“I don’t understand,” he slowly said, upon finishing. “Why do you think this is mine?”


	7. What?

“What?” Lindir stuttered. “But it has to be yours. Who else…?”

Glorfindel smiled. “It’s well-writ and honest, and it cheers me to know you think so highly of my beauty and my guile. But this little letter; it is not meant for me. I have no romance,” he said, with an echo of sadness in his voice, “secret or otherwise.”

The Elves exchanged glances. It was true: Glorfindel was not known for his duplicity. They had only rarely seen him in a successful lie. Still, who else could it be meant for?

“Well,” Silinde said without enthusiasm, all the wind gone from his sails. “That’s too bad.” He reached out to reclaim the letter.

“I don’t think so,” Glorfindel denied him. “You’ve caused enough trouble, whomever this was meant for.”

“Fine,” Silinde agreed. “We’ve no use for it.”

“Besides, perhaps you are yet lying,” Dinendal added with a wink.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work? You three?”

All but Melpomaen laughed at him and waved goodbye as they headed for the dining hall.

Once Glorfindel was left well behind them and out of hearing, they spoke.

“What do you think?” Dinendal wanted to know.

“I think he’s a good liar,” Saelbeth said, “when it comes to personal importance. If he is in the habit of keeping this a secret, he would be used to it, and this should have been no great test. After all, it _could_ be for someone else…”

“I think it IS for someone else,” Lindir grumbled, disappointed. “No one lies that well, even when confronted with a practiced secret. A note like that? He would have turned red, or cast us shifty glances, especially at Silinde. He knows this will get around, whether it’s true or not.”

“I agree with Lindir,” Silinde acknowledged. “There was truth in Glorfindel’s looks.”

Dinendal shook his head. “No, surely not. A good actor he may be, but he wanted to keep the letter. I think he would have been torn, had we honestly tried to take it from him.”

“What do you think, Melpomaen?” Lindir asked.

“I think you should mind your own business.”


	8. How the Grapevine Does Grow

Lunch was an interesting affair for those involved in the mystery.

Lindir and Saelbeth sat at their usual table along with the rest of their sort: all minstrels and mummers and players and fools. The pair, these two ringleaders, related with increasing enthusiasm their story of the love note, and Glorfindel’s vehement denial of it.

Silinde was among the servers that afternoon, and while he leaned in and out between the diners, he whispered words of a hidden love amongst the elite of the Valley.

Seated with the rest of the guards at the long tables on three sides of the giant room’s perimeter, Dinendal spent the majority of the meal attempting to overhear what was happening at the minstrels’ table.

Glorfindel took his customary seat beside Erestor, who was efficient in his eating and curt in his address. Glorfindel, however, was not himself: unusually quiet, even contemplative.

Melpomaen, shunted off to the lesser tables with the other interns, laborers, and workers, watched it all with a discerning and nervous eye, heeding the whispers that eventually made their way to his peers.

“Melpomaen, have you heard what they’re saying about Glorfindel?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ve heard.” He turned his dark eyes to the head of the room, where the subject of discussion sat, unaware of the growing jabber around him.


	9. Retrieval

The hours after dinner found Glorfindel alone in his room.

His schedule during the day was set, so he preferred to dictate his nights, choosing to make those nights a time without routine. Sometimes he joined the crowds in the Hall of Fire, or haunted the library’s stacks. Sometimes he sought the quietude of the grounds or further yet into the forests. And sometimes, he retired straight to his room, a place of comfort and stillness, where there was little to interrupt his chosen mood, be it merry or melancholy.

He claimed a place upon the hearth, preferring the solidity of the floor to the urban civility of the chair. He held in his hands a love note, a creamy paper written upon with a steady, even hand. “ ‘Wrapped myself in thy hair as in a sunlit cape,’ ” he read, shaking his head.

He sighed and set the paper aside, regarding it curiously, then turned to observe the bottle of wine that he always kept in his room, just in case. He groaned and turned to the tiny fire in the hearth, knowing better than to start drinking.

But his self-imposed cheerlessness was interrupted by a knock on the door.

Glorfindel’s wide mouth curled into a deeper frown, and he tucked the paper away into the folds of his doublet before standing to approach the door. “Who is it?”

“I-it’s Melpomaen,” came a timid, stuttering voice.

Interested now, Glorfindel opened the door to look down upon his visitor.

“I’m very sorry to interrupt your solitary evening, milord… Do you mind if I…?”

Bemused, Glorfindel stepped back. “By all means. Do come in.”

As soon as the door was shut, Melpomaen started in, “I’m so sorry about all the fuss today! Really I am! I _tried_ to keep them away; I tried to confiscate that letter… And I am just horrified by all the fuss that’s been kicked up; I know I wouldn’t want any scandal, my name bandied about in the halls… May I have the letter?”

“You?” Glorfindel’s eyebrows shot up of their own accord. “Melpomaen,” he said, drawing out the name teasingly, “Did you write this?” Glorfindel pulled the letter from its hiding place, but made no move to hand it over.

“Oh what a mess,” Melpomaen muttered, “No, you’ve got it all wrong. You see, those four rascals came to me, approached me with the letter. They’d found it by a hearth; I’m convinced the poem was meant for the fire! Not their prying eyes! They wanted me to identify the hand-writing; they thought they could bully me!”

“Ah!” Glorfindel said, stepping back, “it starts to come together… and you couldn’t?”

“No, that’s the worst; I could! I know who wrote that! Please, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done to lie to those four and get away with it! I want this to be over and done with. I want to return it to the author and have done with it.”

Glorfindel took a moment to examine him, all dark eyes and nervous, twisting hands. The Lord smiled softly and offered the letter over. “I’m glad there are still a few upstanding Elves left lying around this place.” He sighed. “It’s too bad, really.”

“What’s that?” Melpomaen asked, finally calm, with the paper in his hands.

“I wish it _had_ been for me.” Glorfindel smiled sadly and shoed Melpomaen to the door. “Have a good night, little scribe.”

“Good night, milord.”


	10. Tracking Down Secrets

Melpomaen first returned to the library. In its isolated shadows, he folded the letter in another sheet of paper and scribbled a message on the outside. He put out the candles and tucked the small packet out of sight.

The corridors of Imladris were far from deserted; people still wandered to and from the Hall of Fire, or other places of interest. But not a one paid any attention to the dark little scribe with head bowed and steps slow and even.

He kept to the walls and to the shadows. He walked sedately through the halls until he came to a door. A shuttered glance to either side showed the passageway otherwise deserted. Melpomaen dropped to his knees, shot the folded papers under the door, and quickly stood, continuing down the hall.

In the far shadows, Glorfindel concealed himself. He frowned and waited until Melpomaen was out of sight. He then approached the door himself, and leaned up against the opposing wall, arms crossed. Acute ears were attuned, but there was no sound from within.

An hour long Glorfindel stood, patient and comfortably occupied with his ruminations.

That hour ended when a dark-robed figure appeared at the end of the hall and slowly made his way toward Glorfindel.

“Why are you outside my room?”

Glorfindel shrugged. “I don’t know, Erestor. Who have you been writing love letters to?” His smile was tight.

Erestor stared at him like he’d never seen a warrior before. “Beg pardon?”

“Why don’t you go on in?”

Erestor stood his ground, mirroring Glorfindel’s unchanging posture by folding his arms across his chest. “I am unaccustomed to being invited into my own room.”

“And I am unaccustomed to being in the spotlight of Silinde and his rumor-mongerers.”

Erestor eyed him a long moment, expression unreadable. In the end, he turned away without a word and opened his door. He halted to observe the packet on his floor and quickly knelt to retrieve it.

He closed the door on the edge of Glorfindel’s foot.

“I’m sorry,” Erestor told him, “if I gave the impression that I desired company.”

“Oh,” Glorfindel said as though surprised, eyebrows appropriately lifted. “You didn’t. I’m just being a scoundrel.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular rake,” Erestor said with a roll of his eyes. He shoved the door until it closed, ignoring Glorfindel’s squeak of pain.


	11. Bribery or Blackmail

Melpomaen spent the next week trying to be invisible.

Lindir and Saelbeth pestered Glorfindel, who refused to rise to the taunts.

Silinde gleefully watched what havoc he wreaked with the grapevine of Imladris.

Dinendal rolled his eyes at all of it.

Erestor seemed to remain oblivious. But he could not ignore Glorfindel’s glances forever. “Would you stop that?”

“Stop what?” Glorfindel asked, passing the peas.

“Staring at me.”

“I’m not staring at you,” Glorfindel told him, as though the suggestion was ridiculous.

“Then stop glancing at me.”

Glorfindel did turn and look at him then, blue eyes narrowed. “Why… what’s going on, Erestor?”

The Counselor rolled his eyes and ate his dinner. “It’s disconcerting,” he said, when Glorfindel continued to glare. “Eat your peas.”

“Hmph.” Glorfindel shoveled in a forkful of vegetation. He chewed and swallowed and watched Erestor out of the corner of his eye. “Hmm… think I could blackmail you?”

“Why would you want to do that?” Erestor asked conversationally.

“Because I’ve been wronged, intentionally or not.” He leaned over to whisper, “I want to know who that letter was for.”

“Stop it, Glorfindel,” Erestor ground out. “People are watching us.”

“Precisely. If you refuse to answer my questions, I’ll give them plenty more to watch.”

Erestor turned to face him directly, dark eyes large, incredulous. “I can’t believe you…”

“Told you I was a scoundrel.”


	12. Headway

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Erestor grumbled as he entered his rooms, letting Glorfindel follow him in.

“Well,” Glorfindel drawled, eying the dark and ominous décor of the unlit chamber, “I know you value your reputation.” He finally let blue eyes settle on a perturbed Erestor. “Or at least your privacy.”

“Mm.”

“So,” Glorfindel drew out the word, taking a turn about the large front room, focusing on this or that trinket, touching the spine of a book, the edge of a table, looking for evidence of this hidden lover. “You’ve been carrying on this affair for how long?”

Erestor turned his back on his uninvited guest and knelt at the hearth to build a fire. Just big enough for a little heat and a little light. He let Glorfindel have open range on the room. “I thought you wanted to know _who_ it was?”

“Well, that too.”

“Make up your mind.”

“Fine. Tell me, will you; who is it?”

Erestor stayed on his knees, back to his guest and his room. Sorrowful eyes watched the growing flames. He reached into his robes and withdrew the poem. “All this fuss. Over such a silly thing.”

“Silly,” Glorfindel echoed, as though to be sure he heard right. Then, quiet, almost to himself, “ _I_ didn’t think it was silly…”

His dark eyes still trained on the fire, Erestor held out the paper. “Read it again. Here. Take it.”

Glorfindel hesitated only a moment, and then seized the now worn and creased paper in a careful hand. He sank to the hearth beside Erestor, who shifted away from him. Glorfindel tilted the paper to reflect the fire’s light, and he again reread the so stirring poem. Sometimes his lips shaped the words, but no sound came from his mouth.

At first, Erestor pretended to care nothing for it, but he slowly turned more and more of his attention to the unwanted guest, watching the firelight flicker golden off his skin and hair, the bright eyes deep blue and skimming back and forth.

“You have a theory,” Erestor suddenly broke the silence. “Tell me.”

Guilty, Glorfindel withdrew his attention from the paper to find Erestor’s expression both open and yet concealing. “I do,” the Lord agreed. “It’s all in the first and last lines, you see,” he whispered, voice suddenly soft, as though his normal brusqueness might make his forwardness more real than it was, “these lines tell of dreams. ‘As though a dream,’ it begins, but ends far more firmly, ‘let us these dreams so closely keep.’ It’s only a dream. I can see that. Erestor,” and he allowed a little laugh. “It’s a romantic notion, this secret affair, but I don’t see how any such mystery could last more than a month in this Valley. There is no pact, no secret, no…”

“No lover,” Erestor finished for him. “You’re right, of course. It was meant for the fire,” Erestor reminded him, reaching for the letter, as though to deliver it to its original destination.

“But no, Erestor!” Glorfindel protested, shocked, pulling the poor letter away. “You can’t burn this!”

“Glorfindel,” Erestor grumbled, too long pressed upon, “you’ve no right. It is mine to do with as I see fit; it is not yours to—”

“YES IT IS!” Glorfindel shouted.

And they stared at one another, one more shocked than the next. Blue eyes, round with the distress of realization and dawning horror. Black eyes wide with fear.

“I- I didn’t mean…” the Lord stuttered.

“What? What did you mean, Glorfindel?”

“But,” Glorfindel held the letter down, flat on his lap, smoothing the creases where it had been folded, “it was meant for me, in a way, wasn’t it?” With his finger, he traced the words _wrapped myself in thy hair as in a sunlit cape_ and marveled. His hand moved down, thumb scraping along the edge of _Loving and making love and falling in love again, But only with the nights, the whispers, and this ready pen. And such writings…_ “How many more are there?” he realized. “How many pages of this love have been lost to the fire?”

“Too, too many,” Erestor acknowledged. And unable to bear it any longer, stood, turned away from the light.

“Do you love me then?” Glorfindel asked. “In these dreams of yours? Tell me, Erestor; tell me now.”

“I can’t.”

Glorfindel frowned, stood, grabbed Erestor’s shoulder. Spun him around.

Kissed him hard.

Too shocked to do anything but react, Erestor stared, gasped, stepped back.

Glorfindel smiled so sadly, the light waning in shadows at his brow. He laid a strong hand over Erestor’s heart. “So much fear here,” he rumbled, “when love should never be hard. Why, Erestor?”

Erestor knocked Glorfindel’s hand away, but only so that he could enfold his arms around the strong neck and bend his dark head to one shoulder, saying, “I do love you, I do. Promise me, you’ll never hurt me…”

“I swear it. I’ll never hurt you,” Glorfindel lied, knowing that such promises cannot last long, when life goes on forever and too many injustices stand in the way of things like love and honor. He kissed the tip of an ear and said, “I love you.”

= = = = =

The End


End file.
